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“How so?”
“Moody. Quiet. Then he’d snap at his assistant or the receptionist for no apparent reason.” He paused, then added, “His assistant overheard Grant and Madeline arguing last week in a conference room.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
“No. I should have, but Grant’s my friend, above all. I saidInever heard Grant and Madeline arguing, which is true.” He leaned forward, looked earnest, worried. “Regan, Grant came to my house last night. He was very agitated.”
“What time? What did he say?”
“Late, after ten. He was in a full panic, wasn’t making much sense. You can ask Isabelle. She was worried about him, too, how frazzled and out of sorts he was. Ranting about Madeline, told me she’d been stabbed. He said he was in trouble.”
“Did you tell the police that Grant came to your house?”
“I did, but I played it down, said it was business related, that he seemed preoccupied. I mean I had to tell them he came over—if I didn’t and they found out, they’d think I was trying to protect him, or helping him. In fact, I don’t know how much I helped, because Detective Quincy informed me that he would be coming by the offices later today, and that I should make myself available. I would do anything for Grant, but if he and Madeline were in a fight—it must have been some sort of accident. Grant would never hurt anyone on purpose.”
Regan didn’t know how much she believed of what Franklin told her. And the way he was speaking—it was clear he eitherthoughtGrant was capable of killing Madeline, or he wanted people tobelievethat Grant was capable of killing Madeline. Neither gave her comfort—and both made her suspicious.
It was only a matter of time before Detective Quincy issued an arrest warrant for Grant.
“Tell me,” Franklin said. “Do you know what happened between Grant and Madeline?”
His eyes were wide, questioning, and she felt it was all an act. She’d arrested, interviewed, observed enough liars in her life that she could see it, plain as day. She wanted to confront him, but didn’t.
She stated, “I want to find Grant. I’m worried about his safety.”
“Do you think—that he would—no, he wouldn’t—hurt himself?”
Suicide? That’s where Franklin’s mind went? Did he honestly believe that Grant killed Madeline and planned to kill himself?
“No.” If she was being honest, the lowest point of their lives was after Chase was killed. Neither she, nor Grant, had become so depressed that suicide was ever on the table. Not for her, at least. She didn’tthinkGrant would contemplate it, but sometimes you didn’t know what the people you loved were struggling with, deep inside. And the murder of a child...grief was debilitating. Grief could drive even the strongest down a dark path of despair.
She dismissed the thought, though she would consider the possibility later. Right now she had the distinct impression that Franklinwantedher to believe that Grant was suicidal. Out of actual concern for his safety? Or because he was planning something nefarious?
“Someonekilled Madeline,” she continued, “and the police are looking at Grant because they were romantically involved and they can’t reach him. I would like to find him first—convince him to come in and answer their questions.” She didn’t state whether she believed in his guilt or innocence, wanting to watch Franklin’s reaction, listen to his explanations.
“I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. I don’t know what’s going on with Grant. I cannot for the life of me figure out why he would run like this.”
One thing had bothered Regan ever since Detective Quincy told her last night that Grant had been seen leaving Madeline’s condo within the timeframe of her murder. Why didn’t he call the police when he found her body? Why didn’t he call Regan for help? He knew she wanted to talk to him about Tommy’s investigation. If Madeline’s murder was connected to Tommy...it would benefit Grant to talk to her. Running was a sign of guilt.
Or of fear.
Dammit, Grant! What are you doing?
“I don’t want to take up your time, but I stopped by to see if you might have any idea where Grant might go, who might help him,” Regan said.
“The police asked, and I really don’t. You, of course. His family? Possibly. He’s not particularly close to his family, though, as I’m sure you know.”
Grant had a cordial relationship with his parents. They never talked about anything substantive. Not because there was anything wrong with his parents—they were good people, upscale, from Boston. They had two sons—Grant, then eight years later, his brother, Richard. There was too large an age gap for Grant and Rich to have been close growing up. They were friendly, but didn’t see each other much outside of the occasional holiday.
Regan didn’t think Grant would reach out to Rich. Rich was in the military, stationed at the naval airbase in Pensacola, last she heard. He might be deployed now, but she hadn’t kept up with him since she last saw him at Chase’s funeral. He was a good man, dedicated to his career, married to a career naval officer, no kids. He wouldn’t help Grant evade the law.
Regan, as a marshal, had an uncanny way of finding people who didn’t want to be found. Right now she was still churning over possibilities, but the idea about his family tickled a memory in the back of her head. Where would Grant go to think? To consider his options? To make decisions?
Where would Grant go to hide?
She thought hiding from the police was secondary to hiding from a threat—and everything about Grant’s behavior over the last few days told Regan he was scared. He’d hunker down in a place that felt secure and comfortable. Some place remote.
She had to find him before the police. It would be a million times better for Grant if he came into questioning voluntarily, and Regan could convince him to do just that.
