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It was after ten by the time Regan arrived at the Archer Warwick Bachman Law Offices. The receptionist looked up with red, weepy eyes.
“I don’t suppose Grant is in,” said Regan.
“No, he isn’t.” She sniffed, wiped her nose with a tissue.
“I know about Madeline,” Regan said. “What a loss for everyone.”
“It’s awful. And the police want to talk to Grant. I know he couldn’t have done anything to Maddie. He loved her. Oh—I’m sorry.”
“I know they were involved,” Regan said. She also agreed with the receptionist, but she had other fish to fry. “Is Franklin available?”
The receptionist seemed surprised by her request. “I’ll check. Can you wait here?”
Regan gave a nod, and the receptionist left her desk. There were two women posted at the counter; the other was answering phones and typing, not paying any attention to Regan. She was new, hadn’t worked here when Regan was still married to Grant.
A moment later Franklin came out of the main offices. Looked like he hadn’t slept much, Regan thought. He put his left hand on her arm when he approached, squeezed it.
“Regan, I just spoke to the police. It’s awful. Let’s go to my office.” He escorted her down the hall, past Grant’s wing, to the larger spread in the far corner. Franklin told his secretary no interruptions, then motioned for Regan to take a seat while he closed the door.
“Oh—I should offer coffee. I’m not thinking.”
“I’m good, Franklin. Thank you.”
She sat on the leather sofa; Franklin took a seat on the leather chair across from her.
His office was twice the size of Grant’s and beautifully decorated. Its pristine bookshelves had perfectly aligned law books; expensive oil paintings featured under accent lights on the walls; a prominent portrait of his father, the founder of the firm; and an amazing view of downtown Arlington with the river beyond. If the day was clear, they would have been able to see DC in the distance, but gray skies hadn’t lifted this morning, suggesting rain later today.
It had been his father’s office before the old man retired from the law, remarried a woman half his age, and moved to Florida. It sounded cliché, but anyone who knew the elder Archer saw his midlife crisis coming a mile away. She had wondered, perhaps a bit cynically, that if Mrs. Archer hadn’t died of cancer if Franklin’s father would have left her for a trophy wife. She had never particularly liked the older man.
But she’d always liked Franklin. Until the last few days and her suspicions of him blossomed.
“I know you’re busy,” Regan said. “Thank you for taking a few minutes.”
“For you and Grant? I’d do anything.”
“You spoke to the police?”
“A Detective Quincy called the office right after I came in this morning. Told me that Madeline McKenna had been stabbed to death in her own home. They want to talk to Grant. They wanted to know if I knew where he might be. I tried calling him a number of times, but he doesn’t answer.”
“I tried as well.”
“The police contacted you?” he asked, apparently confused.
“In a manner of speaking. I found Madeline’s body.”
His eyes widened. “How?”
“Grant and I were supposed to meet last night at his place. When he was late and didn’t answer my calls, I went to Madeline’s.”
Franklin sighed, rubbed his eyes. “I can’t imagine Grant doing such an awful thing. I’m certain you can’t, either.”
She sensed abutin his tone and didn’t comment.
She wanted information, but she wasn’t about to put her trust in Franklin. Regan had never been good at deception or game playing. She preferred straightforward questions and answers, but asking Franklin direct questions would tip her hand.
The idea that he knew about the plan to kill Grant—a plan that ultimately killed their son—had her seeing red, but she maintained a straight face. She had no proof, no evidence, just the word of a convicted killer who enjoyed playing games and vague references to Franklin Archer in Tommy’s notes.
Franklin said, “Grant has been preoccupied lately.”
