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Or she’d been robbed.
Regan pushed the door fully open, and called out, “Madeline, it’s Regan Merritt.” She then added, “Grant’s ex-wife. Madeline, are you here?”
No answer. She probably wasn’t home, but Regan couldn’t in good conscience not check on her welfare.
“Madeline, your door is ajar, I’m coming in.”
She heard nothing and proceeded with caution, identifying herself a third time.
Regan smelled blood as soon as she stepped into the entry. She pulled her sidearm and held it close to her body, beginning a search of the penthouse. On a small secretary-style desk in the entry was a cell phone, briefcase, and purse. Beige heels were kicked into the corner. Regan rarely wore heels, but when she did she couldn’t wait to get out of them.
The condo wasn’t large, but it felt spacious because of the spacious great room with windows that boasted a view of the lit city both to the north and east; to the left of the entryway was the kitchen. She couldn’t see the bedroom doors and assumed they were also to the left.
Cautious, she walked through the main room and turned left. The kitchen was open here, with a counter and bar stools. A bright white kitchen. The dining table was on this side of the great room, and the hall that led to what Regan presumed were two bedrooms.
She stepped forward, stopped when she saw a hand on the white carpet, coming from the kitchen. She took another step and saw Madeline’s body on the tile floor sprawled facedown.
Madeline wore beige slacks, a cream silk blouse, and was barefoot. The beige shoes would have matched the outfit. Her blouse was soaked in blood. A pool of blood spread out on the tile, had seeped partly into the white carpet where the kitchen met the dining area. So much blood that Regan didn’t have to touch her body to know that the woman was dead.
The blood still appeared wet, and Regan avoided the wide circle as she quickly searched the rest of the apartment for an intruder—or another victim.
Grant.
Grant wasn’t here, dead or alive. Neither was anyone else, victim or killer. The blood appeared isolated to the kitchen and dining room. Regan didn’t touch the body, glanced around for a murder weapon but didn’t see anything in the area.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.
“My name is Regan Merritt, and I would like to report a homicide.” She gave the address. Dispatch wanted her to stay on the line, but she ended the call and walked out into the hall. Stood sentry at the door as if she were guarding it.
Next she called Charlie, told him what she’d found.
“You were there looking for Grant?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Text me the address. I’ll be right there.”
She ended the call, texted Charlie, then tried calling Grant again. He didn’t answer his phone. Again. She left another voicemail message.
“Grant, it’s Regan. I’m at Madeline’s condo. She’s dead.” Damn, that sounded blunt. But right now she couldn’t be worried about Grant’s feelings; she was worried about his life. “You’re not here, not at home, I need to know that you are okay. Call me immediately.”
He didn’t call, didn’t text.
By the time the police arrived, Regan had run through every possible scenario, but none of them were good.
Grant was in serious trouble.
Twenty-Nine
Regan was going over her story for the second time with Arlington detective Kyle Quincy when Charlie arrived on scene.
Being his usual personable self, Charlie showed his credentials and chatted with Detective Quincy about people they both knew—namely, the assistant chief of police, who Charlie befriended on a task force where they’d both served. Charlie exuded authority without saying he had authority, which made him extra valuable in sensitive situations like this.
Fortunately, Quincy didn’t think Regan had killed Madeline, though he hadn’t said as much. It was during her second telling of her story that he seemed to relax, just enough to tell her that he didn’t believe she was involved.
