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Bruce Rockford lived only five miles from his office; he wasn’t home. O’Dare flagged his passport and put out an APB on him.
“Let’s try his brother,” Charlie said. “We can at least question him, right?”
Chad Rockford wasn’t home, either.
“Oh, this isn’t at all suspicious,” O’Dare said. “APBs on everyone. When do I get to talk to your witness?” she asked Charlie.
“We’ll arrange it, handle security. She might be in the clear if everyone’s on the run, but I don’t want to take chances since she can identify too many of the people involved. One itchy trigger finger, dead nurse. I’m not going to let that happen.”
“Where’s Regan?”
“Looking for her ex-husband.”
“The lawyer? Who’s wanted for killing his girlfriend?”
“Don’t think he did it.”
“You don’t? Or Regan doesn’t?”
“Neither of us. Regan plans to bring him in to talk to Arlington PD. When she finds him,” he added.
O’Dare didn’t say anything.
Charlie said, “News on the warrant for Franklin Archer’s house?”
“We’re working on it. He’s a lawyer, so we need a clear path to get the warrant, and without a witness statement, we’re going off conjecture and thirdhand information.”
As soon as O’Dare walked away, he sent Regan a message.
FBI secured Brock Marsh. Rockford brothers in the wind. No warrant for Archer, FBI will talk to him on Monday, sooner if you find Grant and he can give a statement? Our girl is secured. FBI is looking for evidence that can get them a warrant on BioRise. Be safe.
His phone rang. It was Anna Lujan. “Is everything okay?” he immediately asked, worried. Had people from Brock Marsh found her?
“On this end, yes, we’re all secure. Carl took over for me an hour ago.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I came by the office, wanted to check on something. Remember when Jenna said Chad Rockford might have been married, and that’s why she was upset that her sister was flirting with him?”
“Yes.” He didn’t see the relevance.
“I talked to her more about it, and then came here to dig deeper. Chad Rockford married Ashley Seidel a year before the robbery. They’ll be celebrating their third anniversary this summer.”
“Seidel—the daughter of James Seidel, the CEO of BioRise?”
“Yes. I don’t know if this helps—I don’t see how—but you said if there were any connections between these people, to let you know.”
“I’ll tell Regan. Maybe she can make sense of it. Thanks, Anna. Great work. Now get some sleep.”
Forty-Three
Grant had been fading—too much alcohol, too much emotion—and she had become angry at his comments. Yes, she could be cold and clinical—she had to be at times. But that didn’t mean she didn’t feel; it didn’t mean she didn’t care.
She took a break, checked the perimeter now that the sun was setting and she’d lose visibility. Checked the garage—Grant had driven her old truck, a Ford Ranger she had left behind when she moved to Arizona. Maybe he had thought his Mercedes was being tracked. She’d almost forgotten that Grant had been storing her truck. Still, she checked the wheel wells and the engine for any tracking device. It was clean. Good.
She’d loved this little truck. It was a basic four-door midnight blue Ranger. Washington Nationals decal on the back left window. Fairfax Little League decal on the right. Great for camping trips, though not as comfortable as Grant’s Mercedes for everyday driving.
Regan went back upstairs and made dinner. There wasn’t much in the house to eat—nothing fresh at any rate—but there was a bag of pasta that hadn’t expired and a jar of spaghetti sauce. She whipped up a meal and put two plates on the table.
