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“Oh—God. I—wow. I hadn’t heard. Was it on the job? Are you coming out here?”
“I’m here.” She refrained from telling him how Tommy had been killed.
“InVirginia?”
“Yes. We should meet. Lunch?”
“I can’t—I have a meeting. It’s important, work.” Why did she think he was lying? Avoiding? “I’m—I’m so sorry about Tommy.” He sounded genuine.
“When can we get together?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m prepping for a civil trial—How long are you going to be here?”
“Grant, I’d like to talk today. Tonight, after work?” She almost brought up his meeting with Tommy but resisted the impulse, decided to wait until they were face-to-face. Grant could be cagey at times, even when hedidn’thave a secret. He was always thinking aboutwhysomeone wanted information.
“Must it be tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be in town.” Make it sound casual. Grant had often said her conversations with him sounded like interrogations. She was simply straightforward.
He relented. “Dinner?”
“Sure. Great. Your place?”
“Remember that Mexican food place we loved in Chantilly? Buenos Gatos?”
“Of course.” It was thirty minutes out of town, but it had been one of their favorite restaurants. When they were first married, they’d lived in a small two-bedroom house in Chantilly—it was all they could afford. But after Chase was born, Grant started making more money, she got a raise, and they moved to a two-acre ranch-style property on the edge of Fairfax. A much bigger house, back when they’d been considering having another baby. If they’d had a second child, would they have stayed together after losing Chase? She didn’t know. But now, with perspective, she realized that a loveless marriage wasn’t good for anyone.
“I’ll meet you there at seven,” Grant said. “I really must run now.” He ended the call before she could say anything else.
She frowned at her phone. Grant didn’t sound himself. She had half a mind to show up at his office, but that seemed drastic. Tonight she would get the answers.
At the coffee shop, she finished her drink, then looked over Tommy’s phone records again, ran a reverse telephone directory on Jenna Johns’s number and found her address. It didn’t take long to identify her social media profiles. Jenna didn’t post much, but Regan learned that she was an ER nurse at a busy hospital in Bethesda. She had a small but active group of friends, all of whom appeared to work with her. On November 1 of last year, she had posted an old picture of herself and her sister with a caption,Becca, you would have been thirty-one today. I can’t believe you’re gone, when you always had so much life and joy in your heart. I’ll love you forever.
Jenna stated that her favorite things were piña coladas and any cookie that had coconut in it. Based on a limited number of pictures, she had a gym membership, but she admitted that she didn’t go as often as she should. Two men popped up in numerous pictures but didn’t seem to be boyfriends. They were tagged—one, Lance Martelli, had a private account; the other, Chris Fielding, was a nurse where Jenna worked and seemed to be a practical joker. On March 20 she had multiple posts about her birthday, when she turned twenty-six. Her friends had taken her out to a country music bar, and she thanked them profusely because apparently she was the only one among them who liked country music.
Jenna seemed a normal, average, busy twenty-six-year-old who wasn’t obsessed with social media, appeared to love her job, and had a solid support group.
Regan hoped she heard back from her today. She had questions for her, chief among them: Why did Tommy think that Becca had been Michael Hannigan’s accomplice in the botched robbery of Potomac Bank?
Ten
Grant Warwick was unsettled after talking to his ex-wife.
He stared out his office window. Downtown Arlington was still buzzing with traffic below his perch on the sixth floor. His was the second-best view in the building, but he didn’t mind. He had large windows and natural light and a comfortable office. He had staff and respect and was a partner in a moderate-sized corporate law firm. He specialized in contract law; the senior partner, Franklin Archer, specialized in civil litigation and negotiation. His theory was if the case went to trial, they hadn’t done their job.
Franklin was outstanding at negotiation. Trials cost more than dollars.
What happened to Tom Granger?
Grant felt alternatively hot and cold. He admitted to himself—now—that he had been worried about Granger because he’d failed to call him Monday night, as Grant expected. But because this entire mess was driving Grant a bit crazy, he didn’t reach out, hoping that Granger’s boss told him that he was wrong, and pointed out all the flaws in his reasoning.
Grant didn’t like Granger, the mightier-than-thou marshal who thought he understood Grant. The man who looked down on him because he thought Grant wasn’t right for Regan. Grant suspected that Granger had been in love with his ex-wife—when they’d still been married—but for all of Regan’s faults, infidelity wasn’t among them.
She was too fucking honest abouteverythingto cheat on him. Sometimes her bluntness made him angry.
But when Granger told him he had evidence pertaining to Chase’s murder, all the little nagging doubts Grant had for the last year resurfaced. So he answered Granger’s questions, got him needed information, and waited.
You should have called.
