“What about his ex-girlfriend, Becca McCarthy?”
“What about her?”
“Did you know her?”
“I’d met her. Garrett and my son went to school together, and I’d met Becca at high school events. They were cute together.”
This conversation was weird for Sloane. She didn’t understand how an intelligent woman could have a relationship with a man young enough to be her son—who had gone to school with her son—and sound so matter-of-fact about it.
A real-life Mrs. Robinson.
“Why do you care about Becca? As far as I know, she and Garrett split up when they went to different colleges.”
“Like I said, we’re trying to piece together Garrett’s background.”
“Becca was his first love, as it often is with high school sweethearts. They grew up and apart—again, very common. But he still loved her. He didn’t say it, specifically, but I could tell.”
“So hedidtalk about her with you.”
“In passing. None of the girls he dated in college held a candle to Becca, he said once.”
“Has he contacted you since he moved to Florida?”
Silence.
Agent Black said, “Mrs. Richardson, did you know Garrett has lived in Florida, north of Daytona Beach, for the last nine months?”
“No,” she said somewhat curtly.
“Does that bother you?” Sloane asked.
“No,” she said. “I left Los Angeles for Florida three months after Garrett and I split. I was angry with my son for interfering in my life, and I wanted a fresh start. I’m happy here. I have friends, I have a lover, I’m content. I assumed Garrett would stay in Los Angeles, though I heard that he’d taken a job at a resort in Scottsdale.”
“And in the nearly eight years since you split, you only talked to him on the phone?”
“Correct,” she said. “Maybe two, three times. The last time was the week before I moved. I had already sold the house and had the furnishings I wanted shipped, so I was staying in a hotel. I called him for a, well, I guess you would say a booty call. He said he couldn’t, that he had plans he couldn’t break. I told him if he was ever in Florida to look me up. And that was it.”
She was upset, Sloane realized. Upset that he had been here for months and hadn’t reached out to her.
“If that’s all,” Mrs. Richardson said, “I have brunch plans.”
“Yes, thank you for your time.”
Five minutes later, Sylvia Black called Sloane. “She was upset at the end,” Sylvia said.
“I thought so.”
“She cared about him more than she let on at the beginning of the conversation.”
“You believe her that she hasn’t spoken to him?” Sloane asked.
“Yeah, I do,” Sylvia said. “She was forthcoming. Not at all embarrassed about the affair, though is it an affair if neither of them are married? Anyway, she didn’t know he lived nearby, and I doubt she lied about not talking to him. Did any of it help?”
“Maybe,” Sloane said. “It gives us more insight into his personality, but I don’t know if that’s going to help us nail him for murder.”
The personnel manager at the Scottsdale resort returned Ryder’s call and promised to send Garrett Reid’s application. Ten minutes later, it arrived via email and Ryder read through it.
He’d listed his parents’ home address as his last address, even though Ryder knew that he hadn’t lived there since he left for college when he was eighteen. He’d included two references—Blanche Richardson and someone named Jeff Maddox. Ryder made note of his address and phone number, then ran it through the FBI database. He wasn’t in the database—which didn’t necessarily mean anything, just that he wasn’t wanted for a federal crime.
