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Everything we believed was a lie.
Regan put the letter in her pocket, looked at her watch. Grant was nearly thirty minutes late. He hadn’t returned her text message.
She called him.
His phone went to voicemail. Her heart pounded as she feared for him. With everything going on, the risk to Grant had been in the back of her mind. She should have pushed him harder this morning at his office, made him leave the building with her, forced him to talk to her.
Where was he?
Madeline.
His girlfriend. Did he think he could hide there? That she wouldn’t know where to look? Madeline McKenna had lived in a condo during the years that Regan knew her, before the divorce. She and Grant had even driven her home a few times after law firm social events.
A quick search on Google told Regan that Madeline still lived in the same place. If Grant was in trouble—in danger—Madeline might know where he went. But most likely, he was with her.
Twenty-Seven
Nelson Lee had survived in this business for years because he was shrewd and cautious.
He recognized the truck parked outside Grant Warwick’s house. It was registered to the dead marshal, Tom Granger.
Nelson’s interest was piqued; this was a turn of events he wasn’t expecting.
He’d learned that Grant Warwick’s ex-wife was staying in Granger’s house; but after his employer analyzed Granger’s laptop and cell phone, and Nelson reviewed the notes from his employer’s surveillance of her, Nelson was convinced that Regan Merritt knew nothing of importance. She was suspicious, she was sniffing around, but she didn’t have any useful information.
Grant Warwick was another story. He had outlived his usefulness, and any talk of working with the authorities was a big no-no. He’d learn that lesson the hard way, Nelson thought wryly.
At this point, he had a no-kill order on Regan Merritt, because her death would be too high-profile. One dead marshal could be explained away. But two? Even if he staged an accident, an unexpected death would bring in too many eyes, too many investigators. Of course, his orders might change depending on what she was doing here at Warwick’s place, and if she made contact with Warwick. So far, Warwick had mostly avoided her for the last two days, but no one believed he wouldn’t talk.
Ideally, the lawyer would show up here, and Nelson would take care of him before he even walked in the front door.
His assignment was clear. He’d taken care of part A. Now he had to take care of part B.
It shouldn’t have been this difficult. What had spooked Mr. Warwick that he hadn’t shown up at his girlfriend’s place when he was supposed to? Why wasn’t he here, at his house?
And what was Ms. Merritt doing here without him?
No one could run from Nelson for long. He had unlimited resources for this job, and he would use whatever it took to complete his assignment.
He desperately wanted to be back in South Carolina for the farmer’s market on Saturday. If Grant Warwick delayed the inevitable, and Nelson missed the market, he would suffer the consequences. A little bit of torture before his death.
Wishful thinking, Nelson thought. It had to look like suicide.
At 7:26, Merritt left the house through the garage. Warwick’s ex-wife had the code. Interesting. She walked directly across the street to Granger’s truck, looking both ways, assessing the street. She didn’t see him because he was far enough away, and he had no intention of following her.
She wasn’t his to kill, not yet.
As soon as she drove off in Granger’s truck, Nelson exited his vehicle and approached Warwick’s house. The code would have been nice, but he had some skills in picking a lock and knew that Warwick had no security system on his house. With the porch light out, he could work in the dark unseen.
In less than a minute, Nelson was inside the house, waiting for Grant Warwick.
Twenty-Eight
Madeline lived in a penthouse apartment in Arlington one metro stop north of the Archer Warwick law office. Though the lobby was secure, requiring a card key or electronic code to enter, there was no doorman or security desk, and Regan didn’t have to wait long to sneak inside behind a resident. She went to Madeline’s apartment on the sixth floor—the top.
Regan knocked on the door, which to her surprise swung open on its own.
Instantly she was on alert. Maybe Madeline had run out to get her mail, or had forgotten to lock up, or she was just nearby at a neighbor’s place.
