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“Was Grant working for any clients who bothered him?” Regan asked Franklin.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Grant didn’t work criminal cases, but I know he had a few civil clients that were less than squeaky clean.”
“Regan, you know I can’t talk to you about any of his clients.”
“I’m just spitballing here, Franklin. Just wondering if Grant might have uncovered something more criminal, or something that disturbed him, conflicted him.”
“If that were the case, he would have spoken to me about it. We’ve discussed numerous ethical issues in the past. We’ve turned down clients we didn’t feel comfortable working for, and if Grant didn’t want a client, he would decline their business.” Franklin cocked his head and eyed her. She couldn’t read him, but he had always had a good poker face. “What are you really getting at, Regan? Do you honestly believe that Grant or Madeline were working on something that put them in danger?”
“I couldn’t say,” she said. “Grant and I haven’t talked much since the divorce. I was hoping you might know more about his work life. It would be better if I found him first, convinced him to talk to the police—before this gets out of hand.”
Franklin nodded solemnly. “Do you have any idea where he is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “If you hear from him again, would you call me?”
“Of course. I promised the police I’d contact them, but I’ll call you as well.”
“I appreciate it.”
She rose, and Franklin jumped to his feet. “Let me know if I can do anything for you,” he said, reaching for the door.
“Oh—I almost forgot,” she said, even though she hadn’t.
Regan turned to him, looked him directly in the eye.
“When I came to see Grant yesterday morning, he said something totally weird to me. I really didn’t think much about it after everything that happened last night, but I just remembered. He said he thought his office was bugged.”
“As in, someone planted a listening device?”
“Yes. Did he express that concern to you?”
“No. I think you must be mistaken. Are you certain that’s what he said?”
“I am.”
“I will have our IT unit check at once. That would be—shocking, to say the least. He must have checked himself, because our clients expect privacy and loyalty. If a rival or competitor was listening in on confidential conversations, that would be disastrous.” Franklin’s eyebrows tilted up. “Perhaps Grant was a mite paranoid lately. That would not be the first odd comment.”
“Oh?”
“He was tired, late to important meetings. Mis-dressed—not his usual self. Perhaps he had something serious weighing on him.”
Maybe something like finding out that someone you trusted killed your son.
Ice ran through her veins. She had no proof that Franklin was involved. But watching him now—his manner, his words, his tone—Franklin Archer knew more. Far more. About Grant. About Chase’s murder.
Knew and said nothing.
She wanted to take him down. Demand answers, force him to tell her what had happened that he would steal from her the brightest light in her life.
But she didn’t.
Regan thanked Franklin for his time and walked out.
He would pay for his crimes. She would make sure of it.
Lance Martelli was nervous but determined when he walked into the US Marshals office for the Eastern District. He approached the woman at the front desk, cleared his throat, and said, “I need to speak to someone about Deputy Thomas Granger.”
