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The crime scene unit had already arrived. They were doing their job—taking photographs, collecting trace evidence, waiting for the coroner in order to fully process the body and have it removed.
Regan, Quincy, and Charlie stood in the middle of the great room where there was no visible sign of blood or disturbance. The hall wasn’t private—several neighbors were standing in their doorways watching the comings and goings of law enforcement personnel.
“Why did you believe that your ex-husband was here at Ms. McKenna’s?” Quincy asked. She’d explained that she was supposed to meet Grant at his townhouse and when he was late and not returning her messages, she came here.
“I didn’t know whether he was here or not, he hadn’t returned my messages, but he and Madeline have been involved for some time, and I thought she might know where he was.”
Another officer approached, whispered in Quincy’s ear, then walked away.
Regan asked, “What?”
He hesitated, as if not wanting to share any information, then evidently decided it wasn’t worth holding back. “I ran you, had to make sure there wasn’t a restraining order. A domestic situation.”
She didn’t know why that bothered her—it was a logical step in the investigation—but it did. She didn’t comment on it, but instead said, “I’m worried about Grant. At first, I was irritated because he didn’t show again, but—”
He arched his forehead. “Again?”
Damn, she hadn’t meant to say that. “We were supposed to have dinner last night, he canceled last-minute, agreed to meet tonight at his place.”
“Were you romantically involved with your ex?”
“No.”
He stared at her, waiting for her to say more.
She had answered the question and didn’t feel the need to elaborate.
Charlie broke the awkward silence. “Detective, since Ms. Merritt isn’t a suspect, you wouldn’t mind if we left.” He said it as a friendly statement.
“I have your contact information,” he said, looking at his pad. “Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
She gave him Tommy’s address.
Reluctantly—she didn’t know if it was an act or not—he said they could go, and he’d contact her later. On their way out, she overheard Quincy ask one of the uniforms to get Grant’s address and contact information.
She walked out with Charlie.
“Talk,” he said when they were in the elevator alone.
“They’re going to put a BOLO on Grant.”
“That’s what I would do,” he said.
“Grant didn’t kill Madeline.”
When Charlie remained silent, she added, “I was married to him for nearly twelve years. I know him. She was stabbed in the back at least three times.”
“You inspected the body?”
“Visually. I didn’t touch her.”
“How she was killed isn’t proof that Grant didn’t kill her.”
He was right, but that didn’t mean that Regan believed that Grant was capable of murder. She supposed that under the right circumstances anyone could kill, but her ex-husband? He would yell, he would definitely verbally attack someone, and—maybe—he could push or hit someone in the heat of anger. But in all the years that she had known him, the years she’d lived with him and shared his bed, she had never once thought that he was violent. He shied away from physical confrontations. He was a diplomat first and foremost; he could talk his way out of almost any situation.
She realized that’s exactly what he had been doing with her for the last two days. He had avoided meeting with her because he knew she’d get him talking. There was something he didn’t want to tell her. At his office, he had obfuscated, whispering there was a bug in his office. That implied someone in hisofficewas bugging his office, because if it was an external source Grant would have it removed. Wouldn’t he?
What was he keeping from her? What didn’t he want to tell her?
