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While Wexford went back to her phone to follow up on other potential witnesses, another agent in another squad on another floor saw the update to the Granger file via an alert he’d set up on his computer.
He quickly scanned the information, frowned. Glanced at his watch, then told the squad secretary that he was taking a fifteen-minute break and left the building.
Ten minutes later he walked back in, accessed the file, wrote down Jennifer “Jenna” Johns’s contact information—and new phone number—and left again.
No paper trail, no phone calls in the building, no chance of being caught. He knew how to cover his tracks.
He damn well hoped.
Fifteen
Grant Warwick was seven minutes late to his lunch with Senator Clarence Burgess and Franklin Archer.
He was never late to any meeting, especially with such an important and busy client. He apologized as he sat in the booth at the overpriced steak and seafood restaurant that the senator preferred.
The senator represented a northeast state, but he lived in Arlington, had raised his kids in Arlington, and owned a house in Arlington. It didn’t seem to impact his favorable rankings in the political polls, as he had been handily reelected two years ago.
Clarence brushed off Grant’s apology. Grant didn’t tell them why he was late, or that he had almost canceled. After talking to Regan, he was out of sorts. He’d tried to talk to Madeline, but she was in a meeting all morning. He wanted to run everything by her, because she was as invested in this situation as he was.
If she hadn’t helped him quietly procure the files that Tom Granger wanted, he would never have believed Tom’s accusations that a client of Archer Warwick had hired Adam Hannigan to kill him.
Grant ordered a Scotch. He didn’t often drink during lunch meetings, but it wasn’t so out of the ordinary that it raised a red flag. Burgess’s own preferred drink—a dry martini—was half-empty. He’d drink two at lunch, never three.
Franklin, however, recognized that Grant was edgy. He didn’t say anything but raised an eyebrow after the waitress walked off.
Grant ignored Franklin’s unspoken inquiry and instead, smiled at Clarence. “Congratulations on the appropriations bill. I heard it was a ball-breaker.”
“Damn senator from Kentucky thinks the government runs on goodwill and elbow grease. Never wants to spend a dime. Can’t run a country without resources. This time he almost convinced enough of my colleagues to join him on his fool’s crusade, but clearer heads prevailed. Had to make some side deals on other bills, but it came together in the end, at least until this time next year.”
They chatted about people in the building—conversations Grant usually enjoyed because information was king inside the Beltway—but today his heart wasn’t in it.
It wasn’t until they finished lunch and Franklin took care of the bill—which Clarence would end up paying when it was billed to him next month—that Clarence said, “Hank got himself into another pickle.”
Hank. Why hadn’t Grant expected this at the beginning of the conversation? Hank wasalwaysin a “pickle.”
“Do we need to contact Cheryl?” Franklin asked. Cheryl Campanelli was a colleague who handled criminal investigations—she specialized in representing the wanton offspring of successful men and women. It was amazing what wealthy parents paid to keep their brats out of jail.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Clarence said, but in a tone that suggested to Grant, at least, that it mightbecomesomething “like that.”
“It’s a paternity claim,” Clarence said. “Hank says the kid isn’t his.”
“Easy to prove,” Franklin said.
“The baby isn’t born yet. We’re months away. The woman is not, shall we say, reputable.”
“Not reputable” could mean any number of things.
“Is there a chance the baby is Hank’s?” Grant asked.
“Hank says no.”
That wasn’t an answer. Grant detested men who didn’t live up to their responsibilities. Especially men like Hank Burgess who had the means to support a kid, whether he wanted one or not.
“She’s likely a gold digger,” Clarence said. “I would prefer that she make the only wise decision in this situation.”
“How far along is she?” Franklin asked.
“I couldn’t say, but approximately three months.”
